Page 77 of Pieces of Me

“Oh, Rylan.” Scott rubbed his thumb over the sensitive skin of Rylan’s wrist. “I’m so sorry.”

“I used to think finding her dead would be the absolute worst thing I could go through,” Rylan rasped, “but it’s not. The worst is not knowing. Not fucking knowing! Is she all alone out in the woods somewhere? Did she take a bus and get a hotel room, slit her wrists in the bathtub―”

He lapsed into silence, and Scott didn’t try to say anything, just sat there and held Rylan’s hand, the sounds of a TV and canned laughter coming faintly through the thin walls of the apartment next door. Eventually Scott let go of him and sat back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his neck to stare up at the ceiling.

“I woke up in the middle of the night once,” he said, his tone offhand, but Rylan noticed his accent suddenly thickening, the Southern drawl coating every husky word with warm honey. “And when I opened my eyes, there was Heather sittin’ right there on the edge of my bed. Didn’t say nothin’, but she was cryin’, kinda rockin’ back and forth.”

Scott’s voice was barely audible, and Rylan found himself leaning forward, straining to hear.

“I could smell the fuckin’ booze all over her. She was reekin’ of it. Tears and snot runnin’, cryin’ so hard she was makin’ these little hiccups. I seen her cry a million times, but for some reason I was scared shitless this time.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight, maybe?” Scott’s eyes were distant, haunted. “She wouldn’t say nothin’, even when I begged her to tell me what was wrong. She rocked and mumbled, playin’ with somethin’ in her lap.” The lines bracketing Scott’s mouth deepened, his lips turning white as he forced the words out. “So I sat up in the bed to see what it was, and when I did, I could see it was a gun.”

Rylan gave an involuntary gasp, covering his mouth in shock. “Where the fuck did she get a gun?”

Scott glanced at him. “Her mama’s ‘estate,’” he said, complete with air quotes. “Turns out she’d kicked the bucket a couple weeks ago, and nobody fuckin’ bothered to tell Heather. She missed the funeral, missed everythin’.”

“Shit. That’s awful,” Rylan breathed, and Scott barked out a laugh so full of pain it made Rylan’s heart ache.

“That old bitch,” he grunted. “I think I seen her twice in my whole life before she croaked, and it’s only ’cause we ran into her somewhere. Small town and all that, you know. The first time, Heather went up to her and said ‘Hi, Mama’ in this scared little voice I ain’t never heard her use.” His full mouth twisted up in a sneer. “And in reply the old bag turned her back on us and said, ‘I don’t talk to sinners and their bastards.’”

Rylan felt sick, unable to keep the pity from surging up and roiling through him, trying desperately to keep it from showing in his eyes. “What an appalling bitch,” he forced out through the huge lump in his throat. “I can only imagine how much that hurt.”

“I asked her who that lady was, and Heather said nobody. So I asked what a bastard was, and she yelled at me to shut the fuck up. That was my one and only introduction to my loving grandmama.” Scott’s voice was mocking. “The second time we saw her somewhere, we all pretended not to know each other.”

Rylan shook his head. “That’s so sad. So many people hurting.”

“Yeah. So when she died, some fuckin’ cousin or whatnot decided it would be a good idea to give Heather her daddy’s gun as a ‘reminder’ of him.”

“And instead of reminding her of anything good, it reminded her of the time when she ‘let him down’ by giving herself to the man she loved, someone she thought loved her, too.” The nausea Rylan was feeling intensified, exacerbated by the pain that was rolling off Scott in almost tangible waves.

“Exactly. Of course I didn’t know none of that,” Scott said hoarsely. “I just knew my mama had a gun, and she was all of a sudden pointing it at me.”

Rylan exclaimed in horror, reaching out to grip Scott’s forearm, digging his fingers in. “You? Oh my God.”

Scott’s muscles were tight as a drum under Rylan’s hand. “It was only for a second, though, and then she pressed it to her own forehead.”

Rylan closed his eyes and gentled his touch on Scott’s arm, running his thumb over Scott’s wrist like Scott had done for him moments ago, wanting to soothe. “You must have been terrified.”

Scott’s nod was jerky, and Rylan asked, “What did you do?”

“Well, I started blubberin’ like the little kid I was, and she looked at me. Her eyes were so―dead, so empty, and I could tell there wasn’t nobody home.” He paused, swallowed hard, and went on. “All I could think to do was whisper over and over, ‘Gonna be okay, Mama. Gonna be okay.’”

He stood, picking up his and Rylan’s mugs, taking them to the sink, and pouring the cold coffee down the drain. Rylan waited. After Scott rinsed out both mugs and stuck them in the dish drainer, he turned back around, the little flurry of activity seeming to have calmed him.

“Finally she sort of slumped down, let the gun fall to her lap again. I was so fuckin’ relieved that I made this―this kind of sobbing sound, and she asked me, ‘What do I got to live for, boy? Tell me one thing I got to live for.’” He ran his hand through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. “‘Me, Mama,’ I told her. ‘You got me. I love you.’”

Scott’s green eyes were stark. “And she said to me―she said―” His voice trailed off and strengthened again. “She said, ‘If you say so,’ then dropped the gun on the bed next to me and left the room.”

Rylan didn’t think; he rose from his seat, went to Scott, and put his hand on his shoulder, surprised when Scott didn’t push him away but instead reached out to pull him close. Rylan slid his arms loosely around his waist and leaned against him, his head on Scott’s chest, hearing his ragged breathing, feeling his thundering heartbeat against his cheek. They stood that way for a long time, until Scott heaved a sigh.

“I took that fuckin’ gun and threw it in the deepest part of the creek,” he said against Rylan’s hair. “Heather never asked where it was, or talked about what happened, nothin’.”

“She probably didn’t even remember it, Scott, if she was that drunk. The combination of grief and whiskey―”

“Like a blackout,” Scott mused, his voice slightly hoarse from the overload of emotion. “That’s what I always thought, too. But still, after that, there was no fuckin’ doubt in my mind how much she hated my guts.” He shrugged. “I stopped tryin’ to make her love me after that. I put my head down and stayed the hell out of her way. It was safer.”